


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

by Gry_Gatevold



Series: Better not (The Life and Tries of Marcus Flint) [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Difficult Decisions, Established Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Family, Fluff and Angst, Growing Up, Homophobia, M/M, Marcus Flint/Charlie Weasley - Freeform, Oral Sex, POV Marcus, Quidditch, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, War, because angst ensues, but not for long, hasn't he matured/endured enough?, poor Marcus, so the refreshing every five minutes starts anew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-03 11:54:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15818370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gry_Gatevold/pseuds/Gry_Gatevold
Summary: They were together. They were happy.Two soulmates on their way to Quidditch stardom. Conquering family issues, overcoming prejudice, growing together.But the war has a way of eroding even the most solid foundation. So when Voldemort rises again, Marcus has to decide.Which road will he choose?





	1. Nothing gold can stay

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two of my Flintwood series.  
> I guess it kinda works without reading part One, but I wouldn't recommend it.
> 
> (This time set to Robert Frost poems)
> 
> Suggestions, constructive criticism and other comments are deeply appreciated!

_March 31st, 1997_

 

Annoyed by the happy chattering of middle-aged witches on the table next to him, Marcus set his pint down with a grunt and got up.

The old bartender merely raised an eyebrow, then continued to rinse out dirty glasses. Marcus made his way to the door, his vision already a bit hazy from the booze. He pushed open the heavy door and stumbled into the alley. The cold wind hit him in the face. Icy rain was soaking his Montrose sweater, so he donned the black and white hood before fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes.

Oliver had hated it when he smoked. So he hadn’t. _Can’t tell me what to do now_ , Marcus thought with a grin that rather resembled a grimace. He leaned back onto the stone wall and took a long drag. Alone in the dark the feelings he was trying to drown in firewhiskey came rushing back to him. Fifty yards away people were strolling on the main street, their faces illuminated by street lamps. No one was walking alone. And here he was, almost within reach, but so disconnected from them as if he belonged to another species.

He had always felt that way, ever since that first outburst of rage when he was a little boy. Anger and fury, those were his companions. And he had been stupid, unbelievably stupid to let himself believe it could change. To wake up next to this boy and actually think life would let him have that kind of happiness. Marcus wanted to hate Oliver for making him feel that way but more than anything he hated himself. He should have known.

Marcus carelessly wiped over his face before taking another pull. The smoke lingered in the cold air, then faded away. A group of people entered the alley, apparently on their way to the hogshead. They were talking loudly, one of them shoving another to the side while the others laughed. Marcus didn’t move. The door to the pub was opened and a strip of warm light fell on the men. Marcus glimpsed a couple of redheads. _Oh no, not the fucking Weasleys,_ he thought. Praying he wouldn’t get noticed, he tried to disappear into the shadows. _Just go in,_ he urged them in his mind. But as he had already established, the universe hated his guts.

One of them turned towards the alley and, with an expression of surprise, stilled. It was Charlie. “I’m coming right in, just…you just go.”, Charlie told his mate who was still holding the door and the guy shrugged and threw a curious glance over at Marcus. Then the two were alone.

“Hey, Marcus, what are you doing here?” The redhead strolled over to Marcus, hands in his pockets to brave the wind. Marcus did not know what would happen if he opened his mouth, if he would yell or scream or cry, so he said nothing. His expression was probably answer enough though, because Charlie mumbled: “Bad day, hm?” And when Marcus didn’t respond, he asked: “Something wrong with Oliver?”

Hearing that name was the trigger. Blind with fury and sadness, Marcus pushed himself off the wall and clutched at Charlies jacket: “As if you didn’t know. He probably sent you to keep a fucking eye on me, didn’t he? You’ve meddled with my life from the beginning, you fucking asshole Gryffindor! So don’t pretend you’re my bloody friend!” Charlie seemed startled for just a second, then immediately shoved Marcus back and slapped his hands away.

“Don’t fucking touch me, nutter! What the hell is wrong with you? I have no fucking clue what happened between you and Oliver but if you were behaving like this I hope he kicked your balls.” Even through the haze filling his brain ever since leaving the cosy little apartment all these hours ago, Marcus sensed that Charlie was somewhat off. His reaction, albeit justified, suggested that his day was no better than Marcus’.

They stood in the dark, panting heavily after their short outbreak. Marcus lit himself another cigarette and offered Charlie the pack. The dragon researcher took it, then fumbled for a lighter. Marcus clicked his zippo. In the light of the dancing flame he noticed a bloody bruise on the other’s lip. Without thinking, he lifted his hand to examine it. “What the”, Charlie growled and smacked his fingers away. “Calm down, man!”, Marcus said, “What the fuck is going on?” When Charlie didn’t answer, he pushed him. Charlie looked up, rage in his eyes. Marcus knew that look all too well.

He also knew what was coming next, but that didn’t prevent him from yelling in pain as the fist hit his jaw. They struggled for a while, each of them getting bloodier and bloodier but still punching every inch they could reach. “Just stop, man.”, Charlie finally said and he stumbled backwards, wiping away the blood that was dripping into his left eye. A couple of girls left the pub, giggling and staggering towards the main street. They didn’t notice the two men in the shadows. Marcus started to think clearer now.

“You want to tell me what’s up?”, he asked. “No.”, the other answered. “What do you want?” Charlie snarled and looked up. They stared at each other for a moment.

Then Charlie stepped forward, clutching Marcus’ collar again and kissing him. Marcus felt the hot, chapped lips, the smell of smoke and the taste of metal. Without consideration, he reciprocated the kiss. They were tugging at each other, teeth smashing in a mixture of foreplay and row. Marcus let his hand trail down the other’s torso, over his crotch. He cupped the growing erection and Charlie let out a moan that sounded more like a low, raspy grunt.

The pub door opened again. They stilled. Someone was talking in the doorway, but either way, they couldn’t stay there. It was dark, sure, but still unlikely no one would notice two burly guys getting it on right in the alley. So Marcus signalled Charlie to follow him around the corner. After a furtive look he deemed the place good enough and turned back only to see Charlie yanking down his sweatpants.

“Fuuuck”, he let out as the other lost no time, dropping down in front of him and basically swallowing his whole cock at once. Marcus grabbed a fistful of red strands and used his free hand to muffle the groans. Charlie definitely knew what he was doing. After five minutes of relentless sucking that felt like an act of self-abandonment, Marcus felt his entire body tense up and spasm as he came into Charlies mouth.

He slumped backwards against the wall and, shaking slightly from the abundance of oxygen, pulled up his pants. The man kneeling before him swallowed his cum, then spat out the rest and got up. “Round two upstairs?”, Charlie asked. Still dazed, Marcus nodded.

He followed his friend to a little Inn two streets further down. They used the smaller back alleys to avoid the crowd in front of the Three Broomsticks. The front desk was not occupied so they climbed up the rickety stairwell and ended up in front of a wooden door bearing the number 4. Charlie opened. The small room was dimly lit by a crackling fire but neither of them payed attention. Marcus quickly closed the blinds and set up a _Muffliato_ charm while Charlie took off his jacket and knit sweater. It was green, with a dragon embellishing the chest.

Marcus thought that Miss Weasley had probably hand-knit the thing. Imagining her spending hours choosing the yarn, creating the little pattern around the hem and gifting it to her second eldest son on Christmas made him feel a sharp sting in his stomach. Now it lay carelessly discarded on the shabby floor, blood stains tinging the neck red. And the beloved son stood next to it, half naked and determined.

He was looking at Marcus: “Ready to fuck me?” The Slytherin undressed as well and threw his wet hoodie onto the sad, green and red jumper. “You top”, he said as he climbed onto the mattress. It was meant to sound indifferent but his voice quivered. Charlie shrugged, stepped out of his pants and settled behind him. Marcus spread his legs and sunk onto his elbows, fists balled into the freshly laundered sheets.

The Gryffindor carefully lubed them both up, then slowly began penetrating the Slytherin. “Just fucking put it in you pussy”, Marcus groaned. Next second, he could feel himself almost tear as Charlie thrust forward. They set up a ruthless pace, flesh smacking against flesh, fingers digging into hips, leaving bruises. And Marcus inexplicably thought about Oliver and how he had teased him for liking to bottom.

_“Big bad Slytherin likes to be taken from behind, who would have thought?”, Oliver had joked while lying on Marcus’ chest. His finger had been tracing the slender line of hair under his boyfriend’s belly button. “No no, I know, you’re a power bottom”, he had added as Marcus started to resist. They had both laughed and Marcus didn’t even care that Oliver knew exactly how this was only one half of the truth. Knew exactly how Marcus loved to give up his façade and control from time to time and just feel loved, even taken care of. Oliver had slowly dozed off, with their legs entwined, breathing into Marcus’s neck. And Marcus had known at that moment that he wanted to marry this man._

Snapping back into reality, with the redhead still pounding into him, Marcus suppressed the cold and empty feeling the memory had left. Charlie seemed to sense the shift and started going slower. It took another ten minutes, then Charlie came. They both slumped down.

For a long while they just lay there, facing each other as their sweaty bodies cooled down. “I saw your marking.”, the Gryffindor finally said and lifted his arm to touch it. Marcus nodded slightly but didn’t respond.

Silence fell again.

 

Marcus awoke to the sound of heavy rain tapping at the windows.

He got up and staggered into the tiny bathroom that came with the room. While taking a piss he looked into the mirror. It was a bloody mess. One eyebrow seemed to be split open, the cheekbone underneath embellished with purple and yellow bruises. Dried up blood was smeared around his nose and mouth, but he didn’t know whether it was his own. Marcus tried to rinse it off in the ridiculously undersized sink, then used Charlie’s toothbrush to get rid of the terrible taste in his mouth. Feeling slightly better, he got back into bed.

Now, in the pale morning light, he saw the old scars and burn marks all over Charlie’s body. A couple of tattoos – including one of a huge dragon – adorned ribs and arms, but no mark. Marcus had known that, of course, they had talked about it back when his own had started showing up. Still, it troubled him.

As if startled by his thoughts, Charlie started to stir and finally opened his eyes. He looked around for a second, trying to make sense of the situation, then ran a hand through his messy hair and groaned: “Fuck”.

“Yeah, you tell me”, answered Marcus, half smirking, half resigned. Charlie turned to his side. He propped himself onto his elbow and asked: “Anything I need to apologise for?” “Nah”, said Marcus, “I think we both fucked up. You mind telling me what was going on with you though?” Charlie seemed to think about it.

“Bill and Fleur are getting married”, he finally admitted. Noticing Marcus’ confused expression, he added: “My brother, Bill. We were having his bachelor party yesterday. And I…I don’t know, it was just too much. With the upcoming war, everyone is talking about love and soulmates and how it makes this bearable. And I could just think about not having a soulmate. And then…I saw you and you looked so miserable and I _hated_ you, because you have a mark and still fucked up. I know, I know, it’s stupid and totally not what I think now, but well –“ He broke off. Marcus felt the words hit him. At the same time, he could see where Charlie was coming from. And he did have a punchable face, no denying that. “We really are two sad fuckers, aren’t we?”, he finally mumbled.

There they were, at the brink of a war that was likely to change the wizarding world forever, two friends after a sad, angry one night stand and none of them even denied dragging this out just because they had nowhere else to go. No place to call home.

“And what happened to you? I saw your mark yesterday when I – when we had sex. **COWARD**. I guess this has something to do with that?”, Charlie inquired in a low voice. Marcus nodded. “You broke up?” Another nod. Then he got up, grabbed the crumpled up hoodie and pulled a little box out of the pocket. He gave it to Charlie, who opened it and let out a sharp breath. “You proposed to him?”

“No. I was going to, but I guess…”. Marcus voice trailed off. “Sorry, I’m just…kinda shocked, you know? I get it, if you don’t want to tell me, but – everything seemed great between you two when we last met, what was it, six months ago?”, Charlie said.

Yeah. Six months ago.

Marcus remembered the day. They had all met up at his apartment to celebrate another Montrose win. Charlie, Oliver, some of his team mates, even Angelina and Katie from the old Gryffindor Quidditch team. And Katie had brought Pucey, both of them happily showing off pictures of their new apartment in London. Later that evening Charlie and Oliver were singing Quidditch anthems while Marcus listened to Adrian’s sappy stories.

He had watched his boyfriend, red in the face, from time to time gleaming in his direction, and was happy. Six months ago. And now he was lying in a dingy Bed & Breakfast, a fucking engagement ring the only thing on him, and his soulmate thought he was a coward.

 

How the hell had it all gone to shit?


	2. Achieve at times a very star-like start

_September 29th, 1996_

 

Marcus lazily opened one eye and blinked into the bright beam of sunlight shining through the curtains. The sheer fabric flattered in a gentle breeze that cooled his heated body. A faint clattering from the kitchen told him that Oliver was already awake and probably ruining another dozen eggs in his attempt to make breakfast. Life was perfect. _Too perfect,_ a small voice sounded in his head, but Marcus suppressed the surge of anxiety. He sat up, carelessly grabbed a pair of boxers from the floor and stumbled out the bedroom.

His boyfriend was indeed rummaging through some drawers while a dangerous sizzling sounded from the frying pan. Marcus strolled over and threw a worried glance at the stove before kissing Oliver. “Morning, babe. You sure you don’t need any help?”, he asked, trying not to sound condescending. “What, they are perfect!”, Oliver exclaimed, “but you have to be quiet. Nigel, Fionulla and Antonia are still sleeping.”

He nodded over to the assembly of mattresses on the living room floor, where the Montrose beaters and Fionulla’s foul mouthed girlfriend were lying. “You plan on serving this to guests?”, Marcus whispered, pointing at the now definitely burning scrambled eggs. At least he assumed it was that. “Hey, I’ve been cooking here for an hour while your lazy ass was getting his beauty sleep!” “For an hour? Well, that might explain the texture.” He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. He had missed their morning banter.

Ever since starting as reserve keeper at Puddlemere United, Oliver had lived in Dorset and they could only meet on the weekends. If there weren’t any games. Or upcoming games. Or strategy sessions. It had been hard at first, after spending one whole summer together.

They had installed a direct fireplace connection between their apartments to reduce the risk of splintering every time they met. Marcus tiny flat over a dingy pub hadn’t even had a fireplace and in the spirit of becoming a better man, he had tried to go the official route in acquiring one. After filling out five different forms and waiting in line for three hours, he had given up, used a _Confundus Charm_ on the office clerk and just installed it himself. But even after using the floo for daily little meet-ups, their time was cut dramatically short.

Marcus didn’t want to hog Oliver and encouraged him to go out with his new team mates after training. It didn’t have the life-changing effect Marcus had experienced for himself one year prior, but definitely helped with the settling in. And whenever Oliver told him about the little adventures they had off the field – like going camping and getting attacked by a horde of nifflers in the middle of the night – he felt a strange surge of pride in his boyfriend. Still, he had missed this.

“What are you getting all watery-eyed at me?”, Oliver now inquired. _Damnit, get it together,_ Marcus thought. While it had always been a huge advantage to openly express everything that was going on inside when it came to being scary, it lately only gained him infuriatingly gentle looks from his boyfriend. Like he actually thought Marcus was _adorable_.

“Must be the fumes from the pan”, he retaliated. Looking insulted, Oliver threw his hands in the air and said: “Fine. You make breakfast. I’ll wake up the others. But you –“, he pointed an accusing finger at Marcus, “eat those eggs. And _if_ you die, I’ll tell everyone you were right about my cooking.” Marcus merely chuckled but stopped after daring a second glance at his last meal.

 

Ten minutes later they assembled round the wooden table, Antonia still yawning vigorously.

Marcus handed everyone a plate of perfectly creamy scrambled eggs – they were the outcome of numerous hours spent with his family’s House Elf teaching him how to cook, his new way of becoming a better man – then hammered his own out of the blackened pan. “What are you being punished for?”, Nigel inquired, gesturing at the sad grey mush. “Being a lousy boyfriend.”, Oliver answered. Fionulla laughed: “If that happens every time he’s a lousy boyfriend we might soon need a new chaser!”

“Stop yelling”, Antonia pleaded, “my head is killing me. Great party, but I might be getting a little too old for this.” Nigel nodded. “Me too. Look at those two! I don’t even look that refreshed after a spa day!”, he said. Oliver and Marcus exchanged a secret glance and managed not to giggle. “So, what are your plans for today?”, Antonia asked, desperately trying to keep a straight face herself. “You know, while us old folk is taking a pain potion and dozing off on the couch.”, she added.

“Actually, we’re meeting my parents”, Oliver answered her. Big eyes and whistles. Marcus buried his face in his hands (He had to stealthily dispose of the eggs anyways, after chewing on them for five minutes). “Big step, big step!”, Nigel exclaimed gleefully and thumped Marcus on the back, “you a little nervous?” “More like scared to death”, Marcus grunted. He had dreaded that day ever since settling on the date three weeks ago. _What if they hate me?_ , was constantly sounding in his head.

 

After wishing them all the best, Nigel, Fionulla and Antonia left – on foot, because, as Fionulla stated: “Not gonna risk any deadly magic today.”

Oliver cleaned their plates and discarded of his poisonous cooking while Marcus nervously walked up and down the flat. “What should I wear? What will you wear? What if it’s too formal? Oh god, what if I’m underdressed? Oliver, do you have any photo references?” “Come on, you’ll be fine. Stop acting like you’re meeting the queen.”, Oliver laughed. _I’d take meeting the queen over this every day,_ Marcus thought.

By the time they were ready, all of his clothes lay strewn around the bedroom and he was painfully reminded of the fateful morning before facing Oliver at the Quidditch match.

“You look great.”, Oliver said, looking up and down his boyfriend. “I don’t feel great. Maybe I should pack a back-up sweater in case I vomit all over this one.”, Marcus mumbled. “You won’t get sick. Look, it’s just a nice little dinner. My sister’s going to be there. She has introduced five terrible boyfriends to our parents, they can grant me at least one. Now lighten up.” And as Marcus still looked worried, he added: “If everything goes to hell, we’ll have dirty revenge sex in their closet, okay?” “Spent all this time coming out of it, but okay.”, Marcus said with a sly grin.

He started to feel better, at least until Oliver said: “Yeah well, about that – I meant to tell you earlier, but…um. They don’t know that I’m gay yet.”

“What?!”, Marcus yelled in shock. Oliver stuttered: “I mean, they won’t have a problem with it, I’m sure. It just never came up until now, so…” His voice trailed off. Marcus stared at him. “It never came up? They are expecting a girl?! Are you fucking mental? What did you tell them?”, he asked with panic in his voice. Oliver blushed. “We um. Just talked about me bringing my partner. As in gender neutral. Look, I’m really sorry, I messed up. But I’m really sure it won’t be a big deal.” “Why on earth didn’t you tell them?”, Marcus asked. He desperately tried not to hyperventilate.

“If I had, they would have wanted to know who it was. And I thought – oh come on Marcus, you are aware of your reputation. Your family’s reputation. I wanted them to meet you unbiased. To see how great you are.”, Oliver explained sheepishly. _My reputation. Of course.,_ Marcus thought. A feeling of shame mixed with anger crept up inside him. After taking some steadying breaths, he managed to control it. _You are more than a bloody Flint,_ he told himself. _Just have to charm them._

Oh god, this was going to be his funeral.

 

They apparated onto a patch of grassland just outside the little town Oliver grew up in. Behind them, the ruinous stone walls of a castle cast their shadow onto some grazing cows.

“That’s it, the last house on the street!”, Oliver shouted excitedly as he started walking towards it. Marcus followed, carefully avoiding the cowpats. As they reached the paved street, his nerves were about to fail him. His heart too, probably. “You got this”, Oliver muttered and rang the doorbell.

A melodic ringing sounded from inside, followed by hasty footsteps and a loud bark. The door was opened and Marcus involuntarily gulped. Before him, a huge bearded man occupied the entire doorframe. He wore a simple flannel and jeans that looked a decade old. His hands bore the signs of yearlong manual labour and could easily smother Marcus.

But he noticed Oliver and his weather-beaten face split into a wide grin. “Oliver!”, he exclaimed with an inviting gesture. Then he added in a whisper: “Thank god you’re here, your mother just tried to get me into dress robes.” A black dog jumped out from behind him and ran straight to Marcus, licking his hands and smelling his crotch. (Actually burying his nose into Marcus’ crotch and wagging his tail, thus destroying any chance of an adequate first impression). Mr. Wood looked at him.

He seemed confused. He looked at his son, then back at Marcus. Oliver ended the awkward silence: “Dad, this is Marcus. My boyfriend. Marcus, this is my dad.” “Graham. Um. Nice to meet you.”, said Mr. Wood while offering his hand. “Grams, what’s taking so long? Come on in, the tea’s getting cold, I’m sure you can interrogate Ollie’s girlfriend in here as well.”, sounded a woman’s voice from the inside.

The three men looked equally embarrassed, then Mr. Wood finally stepped out the door and gestured them into the small hall. A stairwell on the left lead to the upper floor. An assortment of kagouls hung from the banister, beneath which lay wellingtons in all sizes. As they took off their shoes and jackets, a teenage girl appeared on the landing. “Ollie! You’re here!”, she shouted and came running down. She hugged Oliver tightly, almost tripping him over the black dog, then noticed Marcus. Her mouth fell open.

“So this is your _girl_ friend, huh?”, she grinned. “Marcus, Pippa, Pippa, Marcus”, Oliver said. He looked uncomfortable. Not nearly as uncomfortable as Marcus though. They shook hands.

“You guys, this is taking forever, what is going…” Mrs. Wood had stepped into the hall now, drying her hands on a small tea towel and stopped as she saw Marcus. _Here we go again,_ Marcus thought. But unlike her still baffled husband and her incredulous daughter she seemed to comprehend quickly and decided not to make a fuzz. “Hi, I’m Valerie.”, she said kindly. Marcus introduced himself. Everyone else was just standing around, trying not to exchange glances.

“Well then, come on in. I’ve made some scones that might be edible, but just in case Graham also bought some pastries in the shop.” She laughed nervously.

They all followed Mrs. Wood like sheep, into a crammed living room that looked cosy nonetheless. Marcus caught a glimpse of piled up broomsticks in a corner. On the right a bright dining room was visible with a kitchen directly connected. “Sit down, sit down. Oliver, why don’t you and Marcus take the two seater, Pippa can sit on the stool.” Mrs. Wood indicated a brown little sofa. Marcus’ hip was pressed into Oliver’s as they sat but he didn’t have the heart to say anything.

After five hectic minutes the tea was served, the scones handed out and the dog finally quiet. _Merlin, someone just say something. Anything!,_ Marcus silently pleaded. Nobody complied. With his elbows pressed against his sides, Marcus took a sip of tea. It was scolding hot and incredibly bitter. He suppressed a coughing fit. The awkward silence grew.

Finally Pippa, who had been looking from her parents to Oliver and apparently couldn’t keep it in anymore, blurted out: “So you’re gay.” Mr. Wood chocked on a piece of scone.

“Um. Yeah. Yeah, I’m gay.”, said Oliver. “And?”, Pippa asked. “What – and?” Oliver seemed confused. Marcus groaned – his boyfriend could be unbelievably dim sometimes. “And everything! Why didn’t you tell us? Just for dramatic purposes? How long have you known? Do your friends know?”, Pippa almost shouted. “Pippa, calm down.” Mr. Wood lay a reassuring hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “She does have a point though. Why didn’t you tell us, Oliver?”, he now asked himself.

Seeing Oliver squirm under the inquiring looks, Marcus started to relax. Maybe it hadn’t been the worst idea not to tell his parents beforehand. If he had they certainly would cross examine him by now. “I. Um.”, Oliver stammered, “It never came up. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Pippa, you’re in Ilvermorny most of the time and whenever we meet there’s so much to talk about anyways. I mostly see you guys at my games…” He blushed. “That’s just bullshit”, Pippa piped up, “no way that’s your real reason. I mean, sure, you talk about Quidditch 98 percent of the time but still!”

“I’m the reason.” Marcus hadn’t meant to say it out loud. They turned around, facing him. “You don’t have to –“, Oliver mumbled, but Marcus said: “It’s okay.” And to the others: “I’m his soulmate. And I was pretty crappy at it in the beginning, so I guess that’s why he didn’t want to say anything.”

Mrs. Wood smiled. “I’m sure you’re not crappy anymore, otherwise we would never have been allowed to meet you. So you’ve been together for what, almost three years now?”, she asked softly. Marcus nodded. “Soulmates, huh? Well, the universe usually knows what it’s doing. I met Valerie thirty years ago and we’re still going strong.”, Graham joined the conversation, “My parents were not happy, I can tell you that. Wanted me to work at Gringotts. But Val here made one comment about my handy work and I was off.” He laughed deeply. Some crumbles fell out of his beard. “Been a broom maker ever since. They almost didn’t come to our wedding. My parents, that is. But what can you do?”

“Marcus’ parents tried to get him into the ministry.”, Oliver said. “Then you understand. What are you doing, anyways?”, Mr. Wood asked. “I’m a chaser for Montrose.”, Marcus said. Pippa slapped her hand on the table: “ _That’s_ why you look familiar!” “She’s a secret Magpies fan, you know.”, Mr. Wood whispered conspiratorially, bending over to the sofa, “we’re all avid Puddlemere supporters, for obvious reasons, but she always had her own head.”

“But wait”, Pippa looked pensive, “Marcus. Are you Marcus _Flint_? As in weird pureblood Slytherin Flint?” “Um, yes. Unfortunately, yes.”, Marcus mumbled ashamed. _Here we go,_ he thought. Being gay was one thing, but dating the heir of a notorious pureblood family? He braved himself. For a moment nobody spoke, then – Mr. Wood started laughing. He laughed so hard, holding his sides and clapping his knees, that the dog woke up with a jolt and jumped on his lap. “

That is hilarious.”, he finally managed to say, “And I thought my parents were bad. You actually did your own thing, kudos. How did they take the news?” Relief washed over Marcus. “They didn’t. We haven’t told them yet. In fact, I haven’t seen them since starting in Quidditch.”, he said. Mrs. Wood looked sympathetic: “I’m sure it can’t be easy for you.” Oliver, more at ease himself, explained: “From what we know they adhere to a pretty strict anti-gay policy. That was also the reason Marcus – well, the reason we had such a rocky start.” Mr. and Mrs. Wood nodded. “You’re always welcome here”, Mrs. Wood said.

Warmth flooded through Marcus. He had been so afraid of coming here, so afraid of not being good enough again. Whenever he had met his parent’s friends they judged him, assessed him and in most cases found him wanting. And there were these people, strangers really, who had every right to be critical because he was a fucking Flint and moreover dated their only son and they just accepted him. Even liked him not for doing anything special but just for making Oliver happy.

Marcus suppressed the urge to hug the huge, bearded, incredibly kind Mr. Wood. Instead, he reached out and took Oliver's hand into his own.


	3. The crows above the forest call

_November 15th, 1996_

 

The wind was howling, tugging at the black-and-white banners around the pitch. “Good game, everyone”, Nuala said.

She had replaced Cyril Swern as team captain only one month prior and, trying to prove herself, put them through the mill five times a week. Marcus really hoped it would show the desired effect – they were scheduled to play against Puddlemere United the very next day.

The whole team huddled together next to the goal posts for one last tactic discussion. “Nigel, Fionulla, you got to put in all your strength. The Puddlemere beaters are scrawny little things, they will play fast, so you have to hit even harder.”, Nuala explained. The two beaters nodded and Fionulla grinned: “No problem captain.” Nuala looked satisfied: “Lennox, their new seeker is wicked. I’ve seen them play against the Harpies last month. Keep an eye on him, we have no problem dragging the game out as long as you keep him away from the snitch.” She now pointed at Marcus and Alasdair. “It’s on us three to score as many points as possible while Lennox is tailing their seeker. We have to unnerve them, get them away from Lennox so he stands a chance.”, she said.

“Actually, I have a great idea: You might not have heard of it, but the muggles –“, began Alasdair, their newest chaser, but the captain interrupted him immediately: “For Merlin’s sake, no. more. muggle. sports. tactics. Are we clear, Alasdair? You pass to me or Marcus, without fuzzing around. Stay close to me, we do a two – one formation. Marcus, you okay with that?” “Sure.”, Marcus said. “Okay then, off you go. And no drinking tonight, do you hear me?”, Nuala ended their training.

They all turned and walked off the pitch, but she caught up with Marcus after just a couple of feet. “How’s your shoulder?”, she asked in a gentler tone. Marcus tentatively raised his right arm, clutching the shoulder with his left to feel the joint rotating: “It’s alright. Probably just overworked from your drills. The healer gave me a muscle relaxant for tonight and a mild pain potion for tomorrow. Hey, if it’s getting worse we can always use Alasdair’s foot-kicking-tactics.”

He grinned, but Nuala still looked tense: “Did you know he sends me footage of muggle sports? The foot stuff comes from some moronic game called soccer. I tried to watch it. Well, anyways, I hope your shoulder is doing okay. You’re a great chaser, wouldn’t want to replace you. And we need this win! Well, _I_ need this win.” Nuala groaned. She was a good captain and the whole team had accepted her from the beginning.

It had taken a while for her to adjust to the Scottish weather and its effects on Quidditch – an _Impervius charm_ was basic preparation, as was sign language instead of shouted orders and a round of _Pepperup_ during every break. Whenever they had landed after training, soaked to the bone and hoarse from yelling through the wind, she had sighed at the thought of flying over Lake Victoria. Her former team, the Patonga Proudsticks, had made history as the first African team to hold the Magpies to a draw. That was before her time, of course, but Nuala beamed with pride nonetheless whenever someone mentioned it.

“And you’ll get it, I’m sure. You’re awesome as captain, captain.”, Marcus said sincerely and tapped her on the back. They had become a strong team, passing faster than anyone else and playing perfectly in sync. “Alright, I better get some sleep. Oh, who am I kidding, I’ll be up all night studying Puddlemere tactics. You don’t happen to have any inside information? You know, from your boyfriend?” Nuala looked at him hopefully. Marcus laughed again but shook his head: “You’ve asked me this at least five times. Just give it a rest. I don’t know anything and Oliver’s not even going to play. And you better sleep!”

 

He arrived at his apartment and saw a note pinned to the fireplace:

_"Good luck for the game tomorrow. I still think we’ll flatten you. But I love you. More than Quidditch, I promise! (This might not be visible until after we won, but I do.) Love, Oliver"_

Marcus took the note and put it into the battered old shoe box where he kept all the little slips of paper his soulmate had ever given him. Not that Oliver knew, of course. He had written _“Flint family stuff”_ on the lid, just to make sure Oliver wouldn’t accidentally find them.

Marcus hadn’t expected company the night before a game, even if he wouldn’t mind a little distraction. _Can’t be mad, after all you chose an obsessive weirdo,_ he thought glumly while reheating some leftovers. Eating in complete silence was weird. He briefly considered going down to the pub with Nigel, but abandoned the idea because of Nuala’s no-drinking-rule.

Instead, he dragged his chair over to the window, opened it and put some of his pie on the ledge. The magpies were already used to his presence and started picking at the crumbs. One particularly feisty one – Marcus had called it Victor after his first Quidditch crush – hopped over and into the room. It cocked its black head, shot a daring look at Marcus, then stole his last piece of bread. _Letting a bird steal my food. Great.,_ Marcus thought half amused, half resigned.

Not too long ago people had quivered at the sheer sight of him. His rage had been legendary, even Malfoy didn’t dare to oppose him. And now? He was following his captain’s orders even when she wasn’t there to enforce them (god, he really wanted a drink) and fucking magpies walked all over him. Not to mention the unbelievably sappy shoe box.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t like his life. He loved it, actually. But sometimes – sometimes he wondered if that was really him. Sure, the punching Marcus hadn’t been him, either. That one had been a reaction to his father’s great parenting. But now he tried so hard to prove he was more than his past or his name or his reputation, he had to wonder what was left underneath it all. A sentimental queer little Hufflepuff? A burly mean Slytherin?

_Yep. That’s why I don’t like to be alone before a game. Or sober.,_ Marcus thought.

 

Someone slapped him in the face.

“Marcus, what the bloody hell, get up!” He groaned and tried to cover his face with the blanket, but it was ripped away. “Let…me…”, he grunted. “Okay, I’ll get a bucket of water.” Heavy footsteps outside the room. Slowly, a sense of reality crept back inside his mind. He opened his eyes: “What…what’s going on?” Nigel was bent over the bed, seemingly preparing to hit him again. Relief washed over his face as he saw Marcus sitting up. “No need for the bucket, Fi, he’s up.”, Nigel shouted. Marcus held his head, which felt like it was run over by the Knight Bus. “Come on, get dressed! What the hell happened to you? The game starts in fifteen minutes!”, Nigel pressed on. The game!

Suddenly completely awake, Marcus jumped up and took the robes out of his friend’s hands. Fionulla had reappeared in the door and tried to charm away his firewhiskey breath. Then the beaters grabbed him by the arm, turned on the spot and apparated directly onto the Quidditch pitch.

As soon as she saw them, Nuala came running over. She looked angry but couldn’t hide her desperation. “Finally”, she hissed. Glancing at his dishevelled appearance, she asked: “Why are you late? Never mind, no time to discuss this now. Are you fit to play?” Marcus nodded. His head throbbed and his shoulder ached. He had forgotten to take the muscle relaxant. With a groan he realised the pain potion was still at home too. Well, he just had to grit his teeth and ignore it. He didn’t dare imagine Nuala’s fury if they lost the game because of him.

The teams gathered around the referee in the middle of the pitch. Marcus noticed Oliver throwing a worried look at him, but didn’t react. He had to focus on the game.

They won, but only by ten points. If Nigel hadn’t hit the opposing seeker with a bludger that smashed his broom, they wouldn’t have stood a chance. Marcus tried his best to keep up with Nuala, but it was nothing compared to their flying during practice. Alasdair fucked up as well, trying some genius move where he borrowed Fionulla’s bat and hit the quaffle in the wrong direction. The end score read 280 to 270.

His team seemed content with the outcome, congratulating Nuala to her first win as captain as they trudged towards the locker rooms. Marcus could hear Nigel whisper to her. Judging by their secretive glances, they were talking about him. He was right.

Inside the safety of the changing room, Nuala cornered him: “Now, you mind telling me what the fuck is wrong with you? Nigel said you were still asleep when I sent them to get you. And you reek of alcohol! I have half a mind to kick you off the team! Any explanation you care to share?” Her nostrils were flared with fury and one eyebrow twitched uncontrollably. “I…overslept. Sorry.”, Marcus said lamely. “You overslept? Just like that?”, her voice was getting louder, “I specifically told you not to drink! You think this is some kind of joke?” And as he didn’t respond, she scoffed: “One more lapse and you’re out. This is unbelievable.”

She turned around and left. The whole team had stared at their interaction and now pretended to act nonchalant. Marcus fled.

 

When he arrived at his flat, Oliver was already waiting for him. He stood in Marcus’ kitchen, overlooking last night’s chaos: Bottles of beer strewn on the floor, broken glass on the counter, mixed with some blood. In between shreds of little notes, some ripped into pieces. A picture of the two of them, grinning at the Quidditch World Cup, stood on the table.

Oliver looked up as Marcus shut the door. He carefully stepped over the glass and rushed towards his boyfriend. “You okay? I was worried sick! What happened to you?”, he asked while grabbing Marcus’ arms. Marcus winced in pain at the touch – his shoulder had started to really hurt only five minutes into the game, but he hadn’t noticed the extent of the damage until after. “Wha – are you hurt?” Oliver let go of him but looked even more concerned.

“I’m fine, it’s just my shoulder. Forgot to take the potion.”, Marcus mumbled, stumbled over to his leather sofa and slumped down. “Here, I found it on the counter”, Oliver said, fetching the little vial and handing it to him. Then he sat on the coffee table facing him. Marcus pulled out the stopper and swallowed the entire potion. He could feel the throbbing subside.

“Marcus, what happened?”, Oliver asked again, pointedly this time. Marcus sighed. “I don’t know. I fucked up. Got in a strange mood last night and thought a drink would help. Guess I didn’t stop after the first.” Oliver looked incredulous and he added in a resigned voice: “Look, can we not get into this right now? Nuala already ripped me a new one.” His feeble attempt at a joke had no effect on Oliver.

“No Marcus, I want to talk about this. What kind of _strange mood_ made you drink half a liquor store the night before a game? You could easily have lost if not for Nigel’s lucky save! This behaviour could have ended your career! For god’s sake, Marcus, I’m talking to you!” Marcus stared at his soulmate. He wanted to talk about _Quidditch_? Not one word about the shredded notes – something he hadn’t even known about until now. Marcus suddenly felt like being alone.

As that was currently not an option, he lashed out instead: “Who cares about fucking Quidditch? Yeah, you, I know. That’s all you care about. Don’t you think I haven’t noticed you avoiding me after the game? Funny how you never do that when I play brilliantly. But a mediocre player must be way to embarrassing to have as a boyfriend.” Oliver’s jaw tightened. “Don’t you try turn this on me!”, he said coldly, “I’m not the one acting strangely here. You know fucking well I care about Quidditch, but you also know I care about you! Why do you think I’m sitting here getting yelled at while my team is out drowning the sorrow?”

Marcus looked up. He had been so busy pitying himself that he nearly forgot Puddlemere had lost. Something Oliver was typically affected by for at least a week. He sighed and pulled himself together. “Sorry.”, he mumbled. “I was really worried”, Oliver whispered. He got up and threw himself on the couch next to his soulmate. Marcus lifted his right arm with some difficulty to pull him closer. “I missed you.”

“Well, you made that pretty clear.”, Oliver huffed but seemed pacified nonetheless, “Pretty dramatic with the picture and the notes. Could have just called.” “Didn’t want to bother you. I know you like to think about tactics the night before a game. Even if you don’t play, which is weird. Still thought I should respect it.”, Marcus said in a low voice. “Yeah, your second choice screams respect. And just so you know: You’re more important than Quidditch. Promise you’ll call next time?”, Oliver pushed on. Marcus promised.

They hadn’t talked about the trigger or anything surrounding his motivation to decimate his stock of whiskey. Marcus didn’t know if he could put it into words anyways. It wasn’t over though. The nagging question of who he fucking was hadn’t been answered in the slightest.

For now however, he was content with being Oliver’s weirdo boyfriend, mediocre Quidditch player and part-time fuckup.

“Hey, I guess you haven’t read the news yet, have you?”, his awesome Quidditch player boyfriend inquired, pulling him back into the present. Marcus shook his head.

A slightly squirmy feeling seemed to settle into his stomach. As of late, the news was rarely a source of joy. With Voldemort on the rise, dark topics dominated the pages: Sightings of inferi, Azkaban break-outs and attacks on wizards and muggles alike, not to forget the disappearances galore. Marcus nowadays read the Daily Prophet in a state of constant dread, afraid of his parent’s names popping up linked to the Death Eaters and friends’ names popping up as missing or hurt or dead.

“Did something happen?”, he asked tentatively. Oliver’s voice was low and full of sorrow: “Sue Abbott was murdered. They say it was the Death Eaters. The Dark Mark…” He stopped talking. “I’m so sorry”, Marcus whispered. He knew Oliver’s family was close with the Abbotts. Their daughter, Hannah, had visited Mrs. Wood’s classes and they had all even gone on vacation together. “Have you talked to your mom?”, he asked.

“Just briefly, over the floo. She was crying a whole lot. Apparently they went to Hogwarts to fetch Hannah. I think Dad wants to convince Malcolm – Hannah’s father – to move in with us. There are no more classes, so my old room is empty. I don’t know, it’s just…” Oliver’s voice trailed off again. “I know.”, Marcus said.

The terrible news brought creeping shadows of fear. Marcus thought about Sue Abbott. She was muggle-born, Oliver had told him a while ago. Was this the reason they killed her? And if so, who was next? Up until now he had assumed the Death Eaters only targeted enemies of the Dark Lord, those Order people or maybe aurors. Mrs. Abbott had been neither. She was just the wrong sort of people, it seemed. _Like Oliver,_  a voice sounded in Marcus' head. Sure, he was a pureblood, but didn't his family teach young wizards and witches about muggles? Maybe that would soon be enough to end up on a kill list. 

He smelled his boyfriend's hair. And they were gay. Something the old aristocrats deemed as completely unacceptable. How on earth could he protect Oliver? To think that mere hours ago he had freaked out over the question of who he truly was. _What does it matter, compared to this?,_ he thought.

But it did matter. He wouldn't be able to defend Oliver as a sentimental Hufflepuff. To survive this war, he needed to be the mean Slytherin he had left at Hogwarts. 

 

Shrewd and cunning to save the one he loved.


End file.
